Data Dump VII

I never go out unless I look like Joan Crawford the movie star. If you want to see the girl next door, go next door. - Joan Crawford

(* * *)

“I think we’re heading to the coast,” said Daria Morgendorffer as the two looked out the windows. “It looks like the cities have disappeared.”

“It doesn’t seem like much has changed,” said Sandi. “It looks just the same from the sky as it did when I looked out of airplane windows when I was a teenager. The cars still look like ants, and there still seem to be just as many.”

“You know robots,” said Daria. “Always interested in order. No radical changes. No flying cars. The world will look the same as long as humans give the orders.” Daria paid more attention to the Atlantic Ocean. “I thought global warming would have swallowed these coasts up years ago; that there would be no beach. But I haven’t been watching the news lately.”

“God, who does?” said Sandi, looking out the other window.

As the two watched the scenery, they noticed the mass of forest giving way to a cleared area at the top of a hill. At the peak of the hill rested a modern looking home. “Do you think that’s it?” asked Sandi, but before Daria could answer, the helicopter answered for the both of them. Sandi and Daria could feel a shift in the rotors as Daria sighted a large letter “H” in a blue circle on the asphalt below and the machine moved closer to its final landing place atop the helipad.

As the machine touched down, the robotic voice of the copter spoke for the first time since takeoff. “We are about to land. A chime will sound and then the doors will open. You may then remove your safety restraints and depart the helicopter.”

Surely enough, the machine did what it promised to do. As the two orange-suited women departed and the rotors began to slow, a door opened from an attached structure at the end of the helipad. A slim-looking man with brown hair and a mustache walked towards the women.

“Is that Daria Morgendorffer?”

“That depends,” said Daria. “Is that Tom Sloane?” It wasn’t a run-across-the-meadows moment, but both picked up their pace in anticipation. Daria was never touchy-feely, but she didn’t mind giving her old ex-boyfriend a hug.

“It’s great to see you again,” said Tom, smelling like musk. “How are you?”

“Oh, at least I’m alive,” said Daria. She turned her head to Sandi. “Tom, this is Sandi Griffin. She’s a friend of my – “

“—of Quinn’s. Rude of me." Tom almost extended a hand for a shake, but he rightly read Sandi’s body language. Tom and Sandi shared a hug.

“All right,” said Tom. “Time to get the two of you out of those clothes. We’re going to have dinner outside. Robby, where are you?”

A blue looking machine walked from behind Tom. “Robby, take Daria and her friend to the dressing room. Explain how CostumeTech works. It will be new to Daria, I don’t think they had that a few years ago.”

(* * * )

“Daria! I think you’ll like these!”

Daria walked over to the scanner where Sandi was sitting. Sandi was naked and sitting on a towel while Daria was in her underwear.

“Do you see those boots?” Sandi giggled. “They remind me of the boots you used to wear in high school!”

“Yeah,” said Daria, squinting as she adjusted her glasses. “They do. I love boots like that. They stopped making them. Hey, Nimrod,” she said to the robot.

“Yes.”

“I’ll add those to the collection. Size four.”

“Please step on the platform.” A finger swiveled to a flat panel on the ground.

Daria stepped on the panel and was surprised to see a flash, as if a snapshot had been taken. “It will take approximately 23 minutes to fashion the boots. Your other garments are ready.”

“Why so long with the boots?” asked Daria.

“Gee, Daria,” said Sandi, “sizes for shoes have been dead for years. It happened when you were in prison. All shoes are now custom-fitted. The boots are being hand-crafted. All it takes are the materials and a robot to put it together.”

“Okay, Griffin. I have an entire wardrobe. You’re sitting here on your bare ass still deciding what to wear.”

“Daria…there's a difference between being dressed and between not being naked.” Sandi smiled. “Go talk to Tom. I’ll be out shortly.”

(* * *)

Daria had to agree that her new boots fit very well. They were almost a second skin. She wondered if her orange jumpsuits were also custom-fitted, as she never noticed a loose or sagging jumpsuit on anyone from the indigent housing.

As she walked into the kitchen area, Tom was waiting for her. "Well hello there," he said.

"Hey, Tom. Listen…I'm glad that you agreed to let us visit."

"No problem. A lot of this is just empty space. I was starting to lack for human company. Tell me, what do you want to eat?"

It became a much tougher question. After the fixed menus of prison and the poverty pens, Daria realized how much free will she had. "Uh…everything?"

Tom chuckled. "Great. Robby, prepare a banquet for both our guests."

A blue machine in the background began to walk towards the kitchen. "You call him 'Robby'? And you let him cook?"

"He cooks better than I ever will. I'm anthropomorphizing. You get tired of calling them 'hey, robot'!"

"Does he tuck you in at night, too?" Daria was surprised how easily it slipped out.

It rolled off Tom's back. "He - or maybe 'it' - would if I asked it to. He's a general R-124 helper model. I could buy a more specialized R-124-V model to be the Jeeves to my Wooster. Without an upgrade to CostumeTech, it's a waste of time. An R-124-V would tut-tut any choices I made. My parents are using M-248s at the cove. You know, they still haven't bought any new kitchen equipment? I suspect that their refrigerator has been waiting for the ice man to show up for the last half-century."

Tom sipped his orange juice. "But enough about me. How the hell did you get yourself into so much trouble with the law? I tried to find about your original posting on NewYorkList but it had been deleted."

Daria explained what had happened with the posting on the messageboard, and how she had violated Patriot Act III by posting thirty-three words. "It wasn't exactly the Ninety-Five Theses."

"It doesn't sound like it. But what did you mean by that 'risk all to gain all' stuff? I didn't think you were a fan of open confrontation."

Daria sighed. "I don't know what I was thinking. I think it was Jane's political diatribes that got me to thinking. I guess Jane started to get more political and social. I guess I bought into the system a bit more."

"Like you accused me of doing?" said Tom. Tom watched Daria turned red. "Well, you never accused me directly," said Tom. "Keep going."

"Then she simply left the country. Going to France. Not coming back. Jane wanted to talk about politics more and more and I wanted to talk about it less and less. This was before robot eyes were invented. With the robots shoving out the unskilled professions, there was economic pressure overseas for manufacturers to push out their unskilled and stick robots in. This led to a clash with the unions. You know, I could never imagine Jane in front of a red banner, shaking her fist and grappling with the police."

"Sorry. I'm rambling. I suppose I just happened to notice the…blanket that was covering everything. Like drowning in a warm quilt. There were more and more homeless - there had to be - but you never saw them on the streets, never saw them sleeping under bridges. There seemed to be fewer and fewer disputes about the news. I still remember when Bill O'Reilly lost his job. There wasn't a place for an O'Reilly or a Lou Dobbs in the world. There was a blanket consensus that the robots had brought forth a new age, an age of Everything Is Just Fine. But it wasn't just fine. Every now and then you'd get some horrible e-mail from someone in a poverty pen begging for help. It would just be a lightning bolt out of nowhere. Or when there'd be some poor guy who probably lost his job fleeing down the street, knocking you out of the way and then you'd watch the robots apprehend him. People would watch for a few seconds, and then they'd go on with whatever they were doing."

"I guess we were all terrified of ending up the same way. You'd hear stories about how so-and-so's profession had gone the way of the dodo egg. And when robot eyes were invented, you could put the machines on walking platforms instead of in PCs and have real robots."

"But you didn't have to do that," said Tom. "You're a writer. Which reminds me to ask you why you became a copywriter."

"I got tired of being poor," said Daria. "When all the burger flippers lost their jobs, there wasn't much of a use for burger-flipping housing. There were massive economic dislocations. All the money that the burger-flippers used to spend at Wal-Mart went to management instead."

"Yeah, I remember when Wal-Mart closed. I thought those guys were going to be around forever," said Tom, attentively listening.

"The price of everything went up. The money I was earning as a free-lance writer wasn't catching up with the steep inflation. It was either write ads or live in a cardboard box." Daria played with a sausage link. "I think after a while…it just got to me. I didn't have any family alive any more. Quinn was gone, and I was feeling my own mortality. Jane disapproved of me. I felt that I should…do something. I didn't know what I was going to do, but I should do something, even if it was just to talk to people about their discontents. Maybe I would have written a book that no one would ever have read. Or…I don't know."

The two were interrupted by a voice. "Something smells soooooo good. Is there room for one more, Mister Sloane?"

Sandi walked up the three short steps to the dining area. She was wearing a green cashmere toga. The long toga served as a combination sweater and skirt, covering black leggings which were custom made. The two could hear the sound of Sandi's high heels click towards them. Daria wondered why Sandi would have chosen such plain colors - green, gray, black - but the splash of color and abstract pattern from Stacy's Armani scarf drew one's attention immediately to Sandi's face.

"Whoa," said Tom, standing up.

"Sandi has a need to dress up," offered Daria in way of introduction.

"Don't mind me," said Sandi. "A woman's should eat like a bird, but today I might eat like Big Bird. What you have to offer for lunch looks scandalous. I'll be as quiet as a mouse and listen to you talk."

Despite Sandi's words, the two felt a need to bring Sandi into the conversation. Talk filtered back to decades past and the days of Lawndale. Sandi at least had something to offer - she had some insight into Quinn's take on the Tom/Daria/Jane triangle. Daria and Tom were surprised that Sandi would lob the hand grenade into the conversation, but Sandi simply said, "Young love is very sweet. I would have done the same thing, if I liked someone so much. And the Fashion Club were all jealous of you, Daria."

Tom/Daria was too soon to talk about, and Sandi quickly directed the conversation towards what everyone thought of high school. Unlike Daria playing fifth wheel when Sandi and Stacy talked, the three of them had equal contributions - it was a fact of life that high school was awkward and embarrassing, no matter where you rested on the pecking order. The three of them talked for several hours, then walking to the patio, then eating dinner, then resting on the coach, then alcoholic beverages for a drawn-out nightcap.

The twelfth of twelve chimes rang in the background. Tom was amazed. "Wow. Midnight already."

"Maybe we should rest, Daria," said Sandi. "We're keeping Tom awake."

"I don't mind," said Tom.

"Actually, maybe we should sleep. God what a day. I think the paradigm shift has given me jet lag," said Daria.

"I forgot about that. I'm going to have Robby escort the two of you to your rooms."

"What about you?" said Sandi.
"I can find my own way," said Tom. "I don't need a robot to tuck me in."

(* * *)

Daria woke up. She had a horrible dream. She was watching a horror movie. It was as if one of her short stories had come to life. There were characters that went to a high school, and they were all being killed in horrible ways. Heads chopped off and left on a lunch counter. Corpses falling into a classroom.

The horrible part was that she could do nothing to stop it. She wasn't even a character in her own dream. She was a disembodied observer, dreading to have to play a part and expose herself to the danger, but she never coalesced onto the dreamscape. Daria, as a third-person observer, could only observe the horror from afar.

It was a nice bed. Daria stretched out. The bedroom had its own bathroom, so Daria washed her face and wandered out into the hallway of the cavernous upstairs. She figured that she'd bump into one of the robots sooner or later.

As Daria began walking, she heard a giggle from somewhere. She followed the sound to its source.

So how was that?

That was fine. That was very very fine.

Did you learn understatement in Fielding? I'm going to be a bitch and ask for something more specific.

Fucking. Fan-tastic.

That's better. Anyway, I think a woman has to…show her appreciation sometimes. Even if she has to get on her knees to do it. So tell me, Mr. Tom Sloane…can I be honest with you? It's one of my faults.

Go for it.

Why did you invite us here? Why did you invite the two of us to visit you?....okay, you're getting all pouty. Don't get pouty.

I'm not 'pouty'.

Good. I don't like a man with a pouty face. So here you are, Tom Sloane, and you haven't gotten married and you're like what, over forty? You know, a woman would conclude that you're a faggot. There's nothing wrong with that, some of my best friends are faggy. But after what you and I did…you're no fag. Unh-unh. You like girls. So why do you like us? And why do you like Daria?

I'd rather not say.

Well, Thomas…can I call you Thomas…I'm going to make a guess….

..that tickles.

Mmm…you like that? Well, now that I have you in a good mood…here's what I think. I don't think it's because you're in love with Daria Morgendorffer. If that were true, you would have moved her in permanently. You see…I think the reason is because you figured that when you got both of us out of that hellhole, Daria would be so appreciative that…she'd show you her appreciation. Even if she had to get on her knees to do it.

Hey, stop. It's not like that.

…now Thomas, let me finish. This isn't a condemnation. I always wondered why you hooked up with Jane Lane and Daria Morgendorffer. I guess it's because those little pearl-wearing bitches in your social set had nothing to offer you. They wouldn't do the kind of things that you and I just did. They wouldn't hang on your every word. But with old Jane and Daria - a fine pair if there ever was one - you would be exotic…I'm sure they liked you for their own reasons. But you didn't know you had other…choices…

…like what?

…the world isn't all one way or the other. You just think it is. You think your only choice is between a Rolls-Royce and a beat up Hyundai. So you choose the Hyundai. And you're disappointed. So you stop driving. Tell me Thomas…have you ever driven a Corvette? Or a Porsche? Or a Fiat?

…yes. I have.

Really?

…yes. I have them in my garage. You don't know what you're talking about.

…so when was the last time you drove one?

…

No answer. Let me tell you something…Thomas Sloane. I'm not a Rolls-Royce. And I'm not a Hyundai. I'm a Porsche. So Mister Sloane…did you like your test drive? Hmn?

…

Mmmm. I thought so. I used to be a news producer. Whenever I had to evaluate someone at the end of the year, I only had one question - 'what do you want?' Not too many people know what they want. Some people wanted to advance. I told them what they needed to do to get there. Some people wanted to be left alone. And I told them what they needed to do for me to leave them alone. And I think that was the best part of my job. I was better than my mother at it. She told everyone what she wanted….so, Thomas…tell me…what do you want? I've given you a test drive. Do you want the Porsche? Or don't you?

….

….

….

I could never abandon Daria. It would be wrong.

Why? Do you think you're going to make Daria unhappy? You're going to make her miserable? She's always been miserable. You know it. You tried. You won't make her happy. No one can. If you married her and offered her a mansion and all the money in the world, she'd find fault with it, and with you. You knew her for months. She got bored with you. She's not changed. Not at all.

I need to find her a job. Or something.

And she'd still resent it. You will not please her, Thomas. You can't go back to the past.

….

….

….

What about Daria?

I'll take care of it. I'll take care of it all, Thomas. Now…let me show you my appreciation….

(* * *)

Daria told herself that it was a fantasy. That it wasn't happening. That there was nothing, no poison, no force that had subtly changed the Tom Sloane she expected. But what hurt most of all was Sandi Griffin. That Sandi had amply sized her up and just…took action.

There was no place for Daria. This was just an interruption. Sandi Griffin was going to take care of it. Was going to take care of Daria. Probably was going to have her dragged back to a poverty pen. Where she could be bitter…and angry…and with all the time in the world to figure out what she really wanted….